Criminal Minds: The Party Crasher
by Thundarr The Barbarian
Summary: The BAU is called to Miami to investigate a series of murders. A family annihilator is targeting families & their guests during social gatherings. But is the team able to handle what has REALLY been doing the killing? A Criminal Minds/Predator crossover, rated T for violent content (may change to M later).
1. Chapter 1

**Criminal Minds:**

**Party Crasher**

**Disclaimer: **The Predator franchise is owned by 20th Century Fox. Criminal Minds and all characters associated with the show belongs to CBS Television and the show's producers. I own nothing but the stories in my head. Please don't sue.

**Chapter One**

It's a hot Saturday afternoon in late July. Little Susan Daniels is walking down the street with her mother. In one hand she carries a gift wrapped in glossy blue wrapping paper and tied with a yellow ribbon. In her other hand she clutches a plastic wand, designed to look like it's made of wood and makes "magic sounds" when you wave it around. Over top of her clothes, she wears a black robe with a Griffindor patch over the left breast. Her friend Stephen Johnson's birthday is today, and he's having a Harry Potter themed party. They turn up the walkway of a modest one story house with a white picket fence around the yard. Mrs Daniels knocks on the door, and a moment later a man dressed as Hagrid opens it.

"Charlie!" laughs Mrs Daniels, "You look incredible!"

"Stephen insisted that everyone at the party dress as characters from the books," he replies, "Even us grown ups."

"Well, I think you look great," Mrs Daniels tells him.

Stephen's dad looks over Susan's costume. "Let me guess," he says, "Hermione?"

"Ginny," she corrects him, "'Cause of my red hair."

"Of course," he replies, "How silly of me. Well, come on in. Just put the present with the others. We're just starting the first movie right now."

"Okay," says Susan as she walks into the house, "Bye Mom!"

"Bye, Sweetie," says Mrs Daniels. To Mr Johnson she says, "I'll be by at about 8:00 to pick her up."

"Sure you don't want to come in?" he asks, "We're going to be ordering pizzas pretty soon."

"Thank you, no," she replies, "I'm afraid I don't fit the dress code."

"Okay," he says, "See you at 8:00."

Mrs Daniels turns and walks away, turning to give Mr Johnson a smile and a wave goodbye. Susan had been to many of Stephen's birthday parties, and she felt quite comfortable leaving her with the Johnsons. Mr Johnson closes the door and heads back to the living room, where his son and his friends are gathered around their TV watching _Harry Potter & The Sorcerer's Stone. _His wife was there, dressed as Professor McGonagall, setting out the snacks. Susan sits down with the other kids and watches as Harry's obnoxious cousin Duddly finds himself locked in the snake pit at the London Zoo. Seconds later, the living room window seemingly explodes inward. The children scream as they're showered with broken glass. The screaming continues as blood splatters on the television screen.

Thousands of miles away, at FBI headquarters in Quantico Virginia, Aaron Hotchner of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit is quietly watching the team's technical analyst, Penelope Garcia, hard at work at her computer. It never ceases to amaze him just how effortlessly she seems to do anything on a computer. She appears to be cataloging the BAU team's recent cases, while at the same time be programming new security firewalls for her computer system, and unless he's mistaken, is also playing a game of Tetris (and winning). A rare smile creeps upon Hotchner's face. He doubts even their resident genius, Doctor Spencer Reid, could perform three such different (and difficult) tasks simultaneously with such ease. Hotch takes a moment to regain the stoic facade he adopts at the office, then clears his throat. Garcia jumps at the sound and turns to see her boss standing in her doorway.

"Sorry," he says, "I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's quite alright, sir," she replies, "Can I help you with something?"

"I hope so," says Hotch, "I have a bit of a problem. It's Jack."

"Is he starting to act out because of his mother's death?" she asks, "Because I totally understand. When my parents died, I totally went off the rails . . ."

"Oh, no it's nothing like that," Hotch replies.

"Do you need me to babysit?" asks Garcia, "Because I would totally love to. And I'm sure he'd really like visiting my place. I've got comic books, movies, video games. . . "

"That's not what I was going to ask either," he says, "But the reasons you listed as why you'd make a good babysitter are why I need your help."

"Okay, now I'm confused."

"Career week is coming up at Jack's school," explains Hotch, "And Jack wants me to arrange a field trip to the office to show his class how we 'catch bad guys' as he puts it."

"Of course he does," says Garcia, "You're his hero."

"The thing is, Haley and I always tried to keep him away from what I do. I mean, he knows the basics, that we catch bad guys, but the gruesome details. . ."

"Yeah, I know what you mean."

"If Haley were still alive, we'd try and get him to settle for going to her work for Career Week. But now. . ."

"It's no longer an option."

"So now I'm stuck trying to figure out how to make a Career Week presentation for a First Grade class, that not only explains what we do in a way that kids Jack's age would understand, but also. . ."

"Won't give the kids nightmares?"

"Exactly."

"Okay, give me a few days and I'll figure something out that'll be fun, educational, and nightmare free."

Just then a female agent, an attractive blonde named Jennifer "JJ" Jareau, the team's Communications Liaison, quickly walks up to Hotch with a stack of folders in her hand. "You're needed in the meeting room, Hotch," she tells him.

"We have a case?"

"Yeah," she says, "A bad one."

Aaron follows JJ to the meeting room. Already there, seated around their table, are SSA David Rossi, SSA Derek Morgan, SSA Emily Prentiss, and Doctor Spencer Reid. Aaron takes a seat as JJ passes out the folders containing the specifics of the case. Then JJ picks up the remote control for the large computer monitor built into the wall and brings up the new case. Displayed on the screen is a family photo of a husband, wife, and their teenage daughter. They're of Latino descent and appear quite happy.

"This is Manuel and Victoria Ramon, with their daughter Angela, from Miami Florida" begins JJ, "One week ago, someone did this."

She presses a button on the remote and brings up a crime scene photo of Manuel and Victoria, dead on their living room floor, their heads removed. Then she brings up a second photo, this one of Angela's bedroom. The bodies of six teenage girls, all in their pajamas, and all missing their heads, are laying sprawled on the bedroom floor.

"Originally the Miami PD thought it was mob related. Manuel was a prosecutor with the District Attorney's office, and his wife was a police officer with Miami's vice squad. Between the two of them, there's no shortage of people who would want to see them dead. They figured their daughter and her friends were just collateral damage. Tying up loose ends to ensure there were no witnesses."

"Why were her friends there?" asks Reid.

"She was celebrating her Sweet Sixteen by having a slumber party," replies JJ.

"And they don't believe this was a mob hit anymore?" asks Rossi.

"Not after this," says JJ, and she presses another button on her remote. This time a picture of the Johnson family comes up.

"This was the Johnsons," she tells them, "Charles, his wife Rebecca, and their son Stephen. They were celebrating his 11th birthday last Saturday when this happened."

She pushes the button on the remote again, this time bringing up a crime scene photo of the Johnson house. They see a photo of Charles, Rebecca, and Stephen Johnson, along with about a dozen other children, all strung up by their heels and missing their heads.

"The same guy?" asks Derek.

"According to the ME report, it was the exact same weapon that killed this family and their guests as that killed the Ramons. And from the preliminary reports, it looks like it was likely wielded by the same unsub."

"And how do you know that this wasn't a mob hit too?" asks Hotchner.

"With the first family, that was a possibility," replies JJ, "Both parents were in law enforcement. But this second family has no such connections. The father was a high school gym teacher, and the mother was an elementary school teacher. They had no connections with the mob, or the first victims, aside from being killed by the same unsub and with the same weapon."

"A family annihilator," says Reid.

"One that doesn't just focus on families," adds Emily, "This guy kills families who are celebrating an event, and killing their guests as well."

"And it looks like he's escalating," says Morgan, "The first victims were left lying where they fell, but the second victims are all strung up by their heels."

"I've heard enough," says Hotch, "Everyone, grab your go bags and get to the jet. Wheels up in thirty."

With that, the entire team springs into action, going to their desks and collecting their gear before heading off to the company jet that will take them to Miami in a matter of hours.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

On the jet, the team is going over the police reports and crime scene photos. They're trying to find some link between these two families that might explain why the unsub had chosen to kill them. So far the only things they seem to have in common are that they both lived in Miami, and their children both had birthdays in July. The Ramons were Latino, the Johnsons were caucasian. The Ramons were devout Catholic, the Johnsons didn't belong to any particular church. They lived in different neighborhoods. Shopped at different stores. Worked in different vocations.

"Nothing," says Reid after reading their files for perhaps the hundredth time. With his eidetic memory he only needed to read it once, but he understands that his extraordinarily high IQ is intimidating to his team mates, so he reread his files as he tries to come up with a hypothesis.

"Reid?" says Derek.

"There's nothing," Reid says again, "I can't see how this unsub is picking his targets."

"We only just started with our investigation," Morgan reminds him, "We haven't even set down in Miami yet."

"I'm just not used to being this clueless."

"Just imagine that the unsub is a woman," Morgan tells him with a mischievous grin, "Your being clueless will feel totally natural then."

"Morgan," says Hotch, "This isn't the time for levity."

"Sorry Hotch," replies Morgan.

Hotchner always seems to be more focused on the case when the victims were children. Not that he's ever lax in his work, but when the victims are kids he's even more focused. Likely being a widower and single father has a lot to do with it. The dark skinned profiler goes back to studying the crime scene photos. Aaron Hotchner sits down across from David Rossi as he's going over his own copy of the police reports.

"Reid's right," says Rossi to the team leader, "There's no pattern."

"Not that we can see just now," says Hotchner, "Doesn't mean it's not there."

"What about Garcia?" asks Rossi, "Maybe if she digs a little deeper on her computer she'll find a connecting thread."

"She's already looking into it," agrees Hotchner, "Either she hasn't found anything yet or she's being extra thorough."

"God," says JJ as she looks through her file again, "What would cause a person to do something like this?"

"These types of family annihilators, who target happy, well adjusted families, are typically from broken homes," says Reid, "Growing up in an abusive household, the concept of people having a happy, stable family life is so foreign to them they feel like it's unnatural. An affront to all they know. So when they see a family that's genuinely happy together, they feel compelled to destroy that happiness."

"The question was rhetorical, Spence," she replies.

"Just trying to help."

"I understand why family annihilators target families," says Emily, "But why does the unsub seem to focus on those who are celebrating birthdays?"

"Maybe he's a Jehovah's Witness," suggests Morgan.

"Derek," says Hotch.

"No, seriously," he replies, "If he was raised in an abusive home, where the celebrating of birthdays is forbidden, it could seriously twist a person's perception of families that do celebrate things like birthdays."

"An interesting theory," admits Rossi, "But why birthdays specifically? Why not Christmas? Or Valentines Day?"

"Maybe whatever his stresser was, it was triggered while observing a birthday celebration." suggests Reid.

"It's as good a theory as any," admits Hotchner, "But let's keep it under our hats until we've got some corroborating evidence that supports it."

"Right," agrees Rossi, "We wouldn't want to spread any more panic. Who knows what could happen if that piece of news were to be leaked."

"It could start a witch hunt," says Emily, "Jehovah's Witnesses could wind up getting lynched all over Miami."

Minutes later the jet sets down on the runway at Miami National Airport. The doors open and the team steps out into an almost suffocating blanket of heat and humidity. A female police detective is there to greet them. She's Latina, with long dark hair and bronzed skin, and appears to be in her early forties. She's wearing a white blouse and a pair of tan coloured slacks. Her shoes are designed for comfort more than style, and she has a pair of dark sunglasses covering her eyes. Her side arm and her badge are both clipped to her belt. She's standing next to a small fleet of black SUV's which the local FBI office has provided for the team. As Aaron Hotchner approaches, she extends her hand in greeting.

"Welcome to Miami," she says, "I'm Lieutenant Valerie Vasquez, homicide. I'm glad you could make it on such short notice."

Hotchner takes her hand in a firm handshake, "I'm SSA Aaron Hotchner," he says, "This is SSA David Rossi, SSA Derek Morgan, SSA Emily Prentiss, our Communications Liaison SSA Jennifer Jareau, and Doctor Spencer Reid."

Lieutenant Vasquez shakes each agent's hand as they're introduced. "Call me JJ," JJ tells her as they shake hands in greeting.

"Man," says Morgan, "How hot _is _it here?"

"The radio says that it's 105 degrees in the shade," Vasquez replies, "I can't even remember the last time it was this hot."

"It never has been this hot," says Reid, "The hottest it's ever been in Miami is 100 degrees, on July 21st, 1942. Since then the temperature has never gone higher than 99 degrees more than a few times. It's reached 98 degrees ten times since 1942, the most recent being June 22nd, 2009."

"How does he know all that?" asks the Lieutenant.

"Don't ask," Morgan replies.

"Would you like to go check into your hotel?"

"I think we should get right to work," replies Hotchner, "JJ and I will accompany you to the station and you can show us where to set up. Morgan, you and Reid check out the first crime scene. David, take Emily to the latest crime scene. Hopefully we'll find something that will help us catch this guy before he can strike again."

They all split up into their assigned teams and climb into their SUV's. Just as Reid is opening the car door, a flash of movement catches his eye from his peripheral vision. Turning to get a better look, he has to stop and do a double take. He sees a shimmering figure in the distance, like how heat can sometimes distort ones vision and make everything kind of wavy. But that usually happens with everything in sight. This shimmer appears to be the shape of a tall man. Spencer pulls a pocket handkerchief out of his pants pocket and wipes the sweat from his eyes. When he looks again, the shimmering figure is gone.

"Yo, Reid!" calls Derek, "You coming?"

"Yeah," replies the young doctor, and he puts his satchel and his go bag into the SUV. Then he climbs into the vehicle, taking another look at where the figure had been. There's nothing there. He closes the door and Derek speeds away. Spencer cranks up the AC and adjusts the vent so that it blows the cool air directly into his face. Derek Morgan chuckles.

"I thought you'd be used to this kinda heat," he says.

"Las Vegas is in a desert," replies Reid, "The heat there is very dry. The humidity here in Florida is what makes the heat so unbearable."

"You okay?" asks Morgan, "You looked like you saw a ghost back there."

"For a moment I thought I did," he says, "Just the heat playing tricks with my eyes. I'll be fine."

Derek eyes the younger man warily. He knows full well how frightened his friend is of losing his mind. His mother, once a brilliant literature professor, now resides in a mental institution in Las Vegas where she is treated for paranoid schizophrenia. And Morgan doesn't need a PhD in psychology to know that schizophrenia is a genetic condition, passed down from parent to child. It's been known to skip a generation, making Spencer's odds of becoming schizophrenic himself roughly 50/50. The athletic profiler keeps his fears to himself. He knows Reid is already thinking those same thoughts, no need to say them out loud. Besides, Spencer prefers to keep such things private. He only hopes that if Reid ever does find he has a problem, that he'll trust Derek enough to tell him.

They drive to the Ramon residence in silence. When they get there, they quickly walk from the car to the house in order to minimize their time in the sweltering heat. They begin searching the house, profiling the victims in hopes of gaining insight into the head of the killer, a process called _victimology. _They start with the parents' room. They found a lot of what you might expect to find in the bedroom of an upper middle-class couple. The wife had a lot of fairly revealing dresses hanging in their closet. Apparently she did a lot of undercover work as a decoy for Johns looking to pick up prostitutes. The husband had several sports trophies from high school and university, mostly for football. He also had some karate and judo trophies. They try looking in the daughter's bedroom next. Aside from the blood staining the carpet and splattered all over the walls, this appeared to be a fairly typical bedroom for a sixteen year old girl. Derek finds her laptop. He turns it on and discovers a Miley Cyrus screen saver. He also finds it to be password protected. Spencer, meanwhile, has found her diary. He sits down and starts reading it. He drags his finger down one page, reading each line in about the time it takes an average person to read a single word. Then he does the same to the next page, and turns it when he's done. In only a couple of minutes Spencer Reid has read the dead girl's entire diary. Morgan, on the other hand, is having trouble with her laptop.

"Anything useful?" asks Reid.

"Only if you need a good paperweight," replies Morgan, "How about you?"

"Her diary reads like any typical high-school girl's," he replies back, "She doesn't like science because she finds it dull. She thinks her math teacher hates her. She likes a boy at school named Anthony, who's one grade ahead of her. And she's hoping that her parents will let her go to the Miley Cyrus concert in town next month. Nothing about anyone following her home, or any strange people lurking about. Nothing that might point to our unsub."

"Let's get over to the station," Derek says with a sigh, "Maybe Garcia will be able to hack into this laptop over the internet."

"What do you mean _maybe?" _Reid asks, "She can hack into an Etch-A-Sketch over the internet."

"Y'know kid? She just might at that."

The two FBI profilers go down to the living room. Reid stops for a moment and looks at the family photos that are still sitting in their frames on the mantle of the electric fireplace. Morgan stops at the front door and waits for him.

"I've got a strange feeling about this one Derek," he says.

Now Morgan knows that something is really wrong. Reid almost never calls him Derek, it's always been _Morgan. _He usually only calls him by his first name when he's really troubled by something.

"You alright, Kid?" he asks. He almost always calls Spencer _kid. _

"This one just feels different somehow."

"The bastard killed a couple of our own," Morgan tells him, "A cop and a prosecutor. Of course this one's gonna feel different. But we'll catch the son of a bitch. You'll see. And we'll show him just how we treat cop killers here in Florida, with a free ride on a lightning bolt."

"Yeah," says Reid, not very convincingly, "Yeah we'll get him."

As Spencer turns and heads towards the door, he once again notices the strange shimmering in the air. Once again, he does a double take, and once again the shimmering is gone. _Must be my imagination, _he thinks to himself, and he and Morgan head back to the SUV, then to meet the others at the police station. As they drive away, a shimmering, nearly invisible humanoid form, squats on the roof of the house and watches them leave. It makes a throaty, clicking noise, then stands up and walks away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Derek and Spencer arrive at the police station to meet up with the team. They find Hotch and JJ in one of the meeting rooms, which the lieutenant had set up as Party Crasher Headquarters. Rossi and Prentiss are already there, and judging from everyone's expressions their profile of the Johnsons was no more helpful than Reid and Morgan's.

"Morgan," says Hotchner, "What did you find?"

"Not much," admits Derek, "The Ramons were a fairly typical American family."

"The same with the Johnsons," adds Rossi.

"So what's the connection?" asks JJ, "Why did the unsub choose these people?"

"Maybe Garcia found something we couldn't," suggests Prentiss.

As if on cue, Morgan's cell phone rings. He checks the screen, and it's Penelope's number accompanied by a photo of her blowing him a kiss. He immediately answers it.

"Hey, Baby Girl," he says, greeting her with his pet name for her, "Speak of the Devil. Your ears must have burning."

"Oh, it's not my ears that burn when I think about you, Good Lookin'," she replies.

Derek chuckles a bit, as he always enjoys the innuendo filled banter that passes back and forth between them. "Hold on, Hot Stuff," he says, "I'll put you on speaker."

He turns on the cell's speaker and sets it down onto the meeting table. "Okay Garcia, we're all here. What have you got?"

"Good news and bad," she replies, "I've found plenty of information on our victims, but none that connects them in any way."

"Just tell us what you found Garcia," says Hotch.

"Okay," says Penelope, " Victims #1, the Ramons. The father, Manuel, is the child of Cuban immigrants. He was an honor student in high school and a star athlete. He got an athletic scholarship to Florida State University for football in which he was a running back, where he majored in criminology. He lost his scholarship in his second year when he blew out his knee. He didn't have the money to pay for tuition without the scholarship, so he dropped out. He joined the Florida State Highway Patrol, where his record was spotless, during which time he went to night school to study law. He graduated in the top 5% of his class. Passed the bar on his first try. He got a job with the District Attorney's Office, where he worked his way up to first chair at trials. Since then he has had the highest conviction rate in Miami, and one of the highest in Florida. Aside from his impressive records as a state trooper and a prosecutor, he also held black belts in both Judo and Tae Kwan Do."

"Citizen of the year," says Emily.

"Just about," agrees Penelope, "His wife, Victoria, was just as impressive. After high school, where she excelled both academically and at sports, specifically gymnastics, she spent a year backpacking across Europe. When she got home, she joined the police academy. Her performance at the academy was excellent. Shortly after being assigned to Miami PD, she was recruited for undercover work. She's been doing that pretty much ever since. She frequently enters the annual Police Marksmanship Competition. She has won more often than not. She also has a black belt in Brazilian Jujitsu, and has been studying Jeet Kun Do. Oh, here's something interesting. Her Jeet Kun Do instructor was one of Bruce Lee's original martial arts students."

"What about their daughter?" Reid asks her.

"Angela," agrees Penelope, "A chip off the old block. A B average student. A gymnast, like her mom, as well as a cheer leader. She also seems to have shared her parents interest in martial arts. She has been studying capoeira, and had even won several competitions."

"What about the other girls who were murdered there?" asks Rossi.

"They were all friends of Angela's, mostly from the cheer leading squad," replies Garcia, "All C and B average students. None of their parents had any criminal affiliations that I could find. I could dig a little deeper into them if you like."

"Only for the sake of being thorough," says Hotchner, "I have a feeling that it was the hosts that were targeted, and the guests were just at the wrong place at the wrong time."

"What about the second family?" asks Emily, "The Johnsons?"

"Charles Johnson was a high school PE teacher," says Garcia, "He was an average student in high school, but excelled in sports. He was a multi-time NCAA wrestling champion in his weight division. Went to college on an athletic scholarship, where he continued to wrestle. Didn't quite make the cut for the Olympics though. He also took up boxing, was a ranked contender for the Golden Gloves several times. He got a degree in education and got a job teaching. He even coached the high school wrestling team. His wife, Rebecca, was more the academic type. She studied education, drama, and psychology in university. Got into teaching right after graduation and had been doing that ever since. Apparently it was her life's quest to become a teacher. From what I could tell from their Facebook and Twitter accounts, their son Stephen was a fairly normal and well adjusted 11 year old boy."

"I'd concur with that," says Rossi, "His bedroom seemed fairly typical for a kid his age. He liked comics about young heroes. Teen Titan, Captain Marvel, things like that. He also had several novels with similar themes. The Chronicals Of Narnia, Harry Potter, and the like."

"At least one parent from each household was skilled in self defense," says Morgan, "But there's no evidence to suggest any of them fought back."

"Who ever killed these people must have been some kind of super ninja," says Garcia.

"What makes you say that Baby Girl?" asks Derek.

"According to the ME's report," she replies, "the weapon that was used to kill these people was a metal blade about two feet long, and beyond razor sharp. I mean it sliced through bones like they weren't even there. No splintering or nothing. Cleaner than the cleanest cut you could imagine. And they all died within seconds of each other. Like they tried to run but couldn't move fast enough."

"A wakasashi maybe? Or perhaps a ninjato?" suggests Morgan.

"I don't think so, Sweetie," replies Garcia, "The fact that the blades went right through the victims with greater ease than a hot knife through butter isn't the only weird thing about the murder weapon."

"Really?" says Emily, "What else is it?"

"All of the cuts were done in pairs," she says, "Two cuts side by side, perfectly parallel to each other. It's like they were attacked by Weapon 23 from the X-Men comics."

"Weapon 23?" asks Hotch.

"She's like Wolverine," replies Spencer, "She has adamantium claws that extend from her knuckles and toes. Only she just has two claws that extend from her knuckles, not three like Wolverine does."

"Thank God one of you likes comic books almost as much as I do," says Penelope, "But this isn't a comic book, and whatever killed these people is very, very real."

"Could someone have slashed each victim twice?" asks Rossi, "Maybe some sort of dual weapon technique?"

"According to the ME report, the odds of that being the case is less than 1%," replies Garcia, "The most likely explanation is that the murder weapon has twin parallel blades set several inches apart."

"Something the killer made himself perhaps?" suggests Morgan.

"Your guess is as good as mine, Sugar," replies Garcia.

"Anything else Penelope?" asks Hotchner.

"I'm sorry, sir, but that was all I could find."

"Okay, Garcia," he says, "Keep working on it. Let us know if you find out anything new."

"Will do, sir."

She hangs up, and Derek picks up his cell phone and shuts it off. The team all sits around the table looking at each other. No one speaks, for they're all thinking the same thing. They're right back where they started from. There isn't nearly enough evidence to put together even a preliminary working profile. There were lots of pieces of the puzzle that just didn't seem to fit. As unfortunate as it is, it looks like they might have to wait for The Party Crasher to strike again before they can move forward.

"So now what?" asks Lieutenant Vasquez.

"We'll keep going over everything," says Hotchner, "Assuming that the unsub doesn't stray from his pattern, he shouldn't strike again until the weekend."

"What should we do until then?"

"Increase patrols in residential neighborhoods," replies Hotch, "Call in any auxiliary police you might have. Maybe get some reinforcements from the state patrol."

"Already being done," she tells him, "I've even heard rumors that El Tarantula had put out a call to his fellow masked vigilantes to help him with his patrols."

"Who?"

"El Tarantula," she says, "One of our local real life super heroes."

"That's all we need," says Rossi, "A bunch of Batman and Robin wannabes."

"I just hope it's enough."

The following Friday, on top of a hotel with a rooftop swimming pool, there's a fairly wild pool party going on. Rainbow coloured flags are set all about the pool side area. There are balloons everywhere, of each colour of the rainbow. Lady Gaga's _Born This Way _is playing over the sound system. The man who rented the hotel to host his Gay Pride Party, Mark Soifer, is manning the gas barbecue provided by the hotel for his party. He's wearing a light pink speedo, a Hawaiian shirt, a pink chef's hat, and a yellow apron. On the front of the apron is a picture of two roosters touching beak to beak, with a red heart in between them. Below them is written _Two Cocks, Double The Fun. _The party is really hopping with several gay and lesbian couples dancing and having a good time. Mark's lover, Barry Paul, walks up to him with a pineapple cooler in each hand and hands one to him.

"Hey, Baby," he says as he hands a cooler to the host, "Love the party."

"Thanks Love," replies Mark, "I'm so glad that so many people actually showed up. I thought they might be too scared."

"With that maniac killer on the loose?" asks Barry, "The Party Crasher?"

"We ought to be safe up here," says Mark, "We're twenty stories up. Plus there's a whole team of security guards down in the lobby. I doubt there's anything to worry about."

Just then Barry notices a triangular group of three red dots on Mark's chest. He turns and looks to see who's playing around with a laser pointer. A moment later, seemingly out of nowhere, a bolt of blue energy flies through the air and strikes Mark in the chest. His back explodes, showering the wall behind him in blood, leaving a gaping hole in his rib cage. Barry lets out a high pitched, girlish scream as he sees his lover's insides splattered across the wall. Another energy bolt comes from out of nowhere and strikes Barry in the back, causing his chest to explode. He flies into the barbecue, knocking it over.

A lesbian screams as she sees her hosts die. A second later a pair of blades bursts from her chest, cutting her screams short. She's lifted off the ground by something completely unseen, then is thrown into the pool. Her girlfriend screams at the sight of her partner's death, then the blades slice her head clean off her shoulders. Another guest makes a dash for the door, but is stopped dead by a metal projectile, not unlike an arrowhead, piercing his skull.

Down below, Spencer Reid and Derek Morgan pull up to the hotel in their SUV. They have been going over the existing evidence, what little there is of it, all day and have made virtually no progress in their investigation. Agent Hotchner sent them to their hotel to get some rest. Their eyelids were so heavy they could barely keep them open. It probably wasn't a smart idea to drive while so exhausted, but the hotel is located only a few blocks away from the police station. Just as their SUV pulls into the hotel parking lot, Mark Soifer's headless body lands on top of the SUV's hood. The impact nearly flattens the vehicle.

"What the Hell!" cries Morgan.

"He came from the roof!" says Reid.

They get out of the vehicle. Reid quickly realizes that the body is missing a head, and by the looks of things, a spine as well. "My God!" he shouts, "He's here! The unsub is here at our hotel!"

"Call for back up!" shouts Derek as he draws his weapon and runs inside the lobby doors. Spencer quickly gets on the radio.

"All units! All units! Back up immediately requested for The Hilton Hotel at the corner of 70th and Wilshire!" he shouts, into the radio, "Possible multiple 187's taking place! It's The Party Crasher! The unsub is here!"

"Reid!" says Hotchner as his voice comes over the radio, "Hold your position! Back up is on its way!"

"Derek's already gone in, Hotch!" replies Reid, I've gotta go watch his back!"

With that, he draws his side arm and races after his friend and partner. "Reid! REID!" comes Hotchner's voice over the radio, but it falls on deaf ears. As he catches up with Morgan, the larger man is talking to some of the hotel security staff.

"Back up's on the way!" says Reid.

"Okay," acknowledges Morgan, "Now I want all of the civilians in the lobby to be moved into the lounge. Lock every entrance ans exit, and post a man at every door. No one is to be allowed in or out of the building until our back up arrives, and then only law enforcement personnel are to be admitted. Do any of you guards have law enforcement or military backgrounds?" about a half dozen guards raise their hands, "You all come with me and Doctor Reid."

"Where are we going?" Reid asks.

"Up to the pool on the roof," replies Morgan, "The unsub might still be killing people up there. We have a chance to stop him, but only if we act now!"

"So what are we going to do?" whenever there is tactical planning to do, Reid generally lets Morgan take the lead.

"You take three of the guards and go all the way up in the elevators," explains Derek, "One of the guards and I will take the stairs up the west side of the building. The other two guards will take the east side. With both of the elevators and the stairs being covered, the unsub shouldn't be able to get past us."

"But what about the back up?" inquires Reid.

"No time!" replies Morgan, "There might be someone up there getting murdered right now! Now let's move!"

Derek and a relatively fit security guard head straight for the west stairs, while two other guards head to the east stairs. Reid and the other three guards run over to the elevators and hit the buttons to go up. When the elevator doors open they go into the elevators, two to each one, and hit the buttons for the pool. It seems to take an excruciating long time for the elevators to reach the top. When they do, and the doors open up, Spencer Reid and the three armed security guards accompanying him step out of the elevators. They run to the pool side to see if they could stop the slaughter, only to find that they've arrived too late. Everyone who had attended the gay pride party was dead, their heads missing. The security guards all cover their mouths and turn away, trying hard not to get sick. Reid just stands there and stares, in an odd mix of horror and fascination. A flash of movement catches Reid's eye, and he quickly aims his side arm at what he thinks he saw. A shimmering image of humanoid form squats on top of the changing bungalow as though it was observing Reid's actions. Spencer blinks his eyes repeatedly, then wipes the sweat from his forehead, certain that his eyes are playing tricks on him. The shimmering image is still there. Suddenly, Spencer hears the doors to the roof top pool open. Reid whirls about, aiming his gun at the door, only to find him pointing it at Derek Morgan. Morgan holds his hands up defensively.

"Woah," he says, "It's just me kid."

Reid lowers his weapon. "Sorry," he says.

Morgan looks around at the carnage, shocked that there are so many dead bodies. He turns to the armed security guards that had joined them in covering the roof. "You guys go back downstairs and help secure the exits. The killer must still be somewhere in the building. When the rest of the team gets here, send them up to the roof."

The guards go downstairs to do as they're asked. Morgan walks over to Reid, who is once again looking at the roof of the bungalo. Whatever it was he thought he saw there is gone now. Reid looks at Morgan with a concerned expression on his face.

"What the hell is going on here, kid?"

"I don't know, Morgan," replies Reid, still looking very worried, "I just don't know."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

The coroner and the paramedics are clearing up the dead bodies on top of the hotel as the local CSI unit searches for any forensic clues as to the killer's identity. The local SWAT team is conducting a floor by floor sweep of the hotel, searching every room for the killer. The BAU team is by the pool as the bodies are being carted away. Aaron Hotchner approaches Derek Morgan, his expression none too pleased. Morgan looks away, sure that he's about to get chewed out.

"What the hell was that, Morgan?" he asks, "I told you to wait for back up."

"I had back up," replies Morgan.

"Six armed security guards are not back up," says Hotchner, "They're civilians."

"With military and law enforcement backgrounds," counters Morgan.

"You were under orders to wait until back up arrived before you went up," says Hotchner.

"There might have been party guests who were still alive," says Morgan, "If I had waited for the reinforcements, they could have been killed."

"It didn't do them much good. They were all dead by the time you got up here."

"I just did what you would have done, Hotch," says Morgan, "What you have done yourself."

Hotchner stops his argument. He knows full well what Derek is talking about. He's referring to when Hotchner saved his son Jack from "The Reaper" George Foyet, the day Haley died. The rules don't mean much when peoples' lives are at stake. The head of Miami's SWAT team approaches them just then.

"Agent Hotchner," he says, "My men have searched every square inch of the building. Who ever this killer is, he's not in the building. There's no trace of him."

"Alright," says Hotch, "Let's get some rest and pick this back up in the morning."

The BAU team retires to their rooms for the night. The next morning they return to the police department and begin going over the case again. They have the crime scene photos from the previous night up on the bulletin board, and copies of the medical examiner's reports spread out in front of them.

"Alright," says Hotchner, "So what have we got?"

"Whoever this guy is, he's not staying at the hotel," says Rossi, "We searched that hotel from top to bottom. There was no sign of the missing heads."

"He must be a total Houdini," adds Prentiss, "We had people on every exit and entrance and he never showed. However he left that hotel, it wasn't through any of the doors."

"He's fast," agrees Morgan, "And also strong."

"How so?" asks JJ.

"The human skull is the heaviest part of the body. It weighs approximately ten pounds in a full grown adult. There must have been at least two dozen victims last night. . ."

"Thirty two," says Reid, "Twenty men, twelve women."

"Thank you," says Morgan, "So thirty two heads, at about ten pounds a piece, is around three hundred and twenty pounds. Even if you were to take three trips, that would be very difficult to carry out all on your own."

"That's not the only feat of superhuman strength the unsub has demonstrated," adds Reid.

"What do you mean?" asks Hotchner.

"The fellow who was thrown from the roof top, the one who landed on our SUV."

"Yeah? What about him?"

"His head wasn't cut from his body with a blade."

"What do you mean?" asks JJ.

"Apparently the unsub dug his fingers into the small of the victim's back, grabbed hold of his spine, then pulled it out with the head still attached. At least according to the Medical Examiner's report."

"But that's impossible," says Emily, "Nobody has that kind of strength!"

"Maybe the unsub is on some sort of drug?" suggests JJ, "PCP?"

"More like a drug cocktail," replies Rossi, "Like maybe anabolic steroids with a PCP chaser."

"But there's still no prints or forensic evidence to tell us anything about the killer," says JJ.

"And his victimology is all over the place," says Morgan, "First it was kids' birthday parties, now a gay pride party."

"And in our own hotel too, no less," adds Hotchner.

"He's getting bolder," says Rossi, "Who knows where he might strike next?"

"What if he shifts from parties?" asks JJ, "What if he starts targeting night clubs? Or movie theatres?"

"There's no way to truly predict where he'll strike next," agrees Rossi.

"I've got a good idea of when, though," says Morgan, "Tonight's Saturday. Lots of people go out on Saturday night."

"Or have people over," adds Reid.

"So?" asks Hotchner, "What are we supposed to do? Put out a bulletin asking people not to host or attend any parties?"

"Actually," says Rossi, "That's not such a bad idea."

"Unless the government were to declare martial law in Miami, there's no way we'll be able to enforce that," replies Hotchner.

"No," agrees JJ, "But maybe we can convince enough people to stay home to keep them safe. At least until we catch this sicko."

"All right," agrees Hotch, "I'll make the arrangements for the news conference. JJ, prepare your statement warning people away from hosting or attending parties. You should also warn them away from attending the movies or going to dance clubs, just in case the unsub makes any more changes."

Later that afternoon, JJ is standing at a podium set up just outside the Miami Metro Police Station. After a brief introduction by Lieutenant Vasquez, JJ takes the stand. "Ladies and gentlemen," she begins, "I am Agent Jennifer Jareau of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. We have been working in conjunction with The Miami Police Department's homicide division in an effort to catch the killer dubbed The Party Crasher. While I am not at liberty to discuss the case in detail at this time, I can tell you that we are pursuing several leads. However, until such time as we catch the suspect, we would like to ask Miami's citizens to refrain from attending or hosting any social gatherings. We would also request that Miami's citizens refrain from going to the cinema or to night clubs."

"Are you saying that there's a curfew in effect in the city?" asks a reporter.

"Of course not," replies JJ, "We haven't the manpower to enforce such a restriction. We only ask that the citizens of Miami use their own judgment and not take any unnecessary risks. This killer is, for whatever reason, attracted to large groups of people. There's no need to

put yourself in harms way if you don't have to. The choice, however, is yours. Now if you don't mind, I have to get back to finding this person so we can stop him."

With that, JJ turns away from the podium and walks back into the Police Department while dozens of reporters shout out question after question. This has always been one of the tougher parts of JJ's job. Trying to make it seem as though their investigation is farther along than it is, in order to prevent a panic, while at the same time trying to bring the unsub out into the open by cutting off his supply of victims. She can only hope that their gamble will work.

That night, at an upscale high-rise, a beautiful young brunette named Svetlana, wearing a daringly cut, bright fluorescent green dress is riding the elevator up to the penthouse suite. The elevator doors open at the top floor and she steps out into a decadently decorated hall. Two very serious looking broad shouldered men in expensive looking business suits are standing in front of the large gilded double doors. Svetlana boldly walks up to them, her exposed skin sparkling in body glitter. She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a piece of paper, which she then hands over to the two well dressed bouncers. They look over the paper, check her name against their guest list, nod their heads, then hand it back to her. They open up the door and Svetlana walks into the penthouse suite.

The suite is totally dark. All of the lights have been replaced by blacklights, and there are additional blacklight fixtures all over the apartment. There are several UV reflective posters and decorations all over the apartment. _Get Yours, Get Mine _by Christina Aguilera from her _Stripped _album is playing on the stereo. Svetlana's dress and body glitter glow brightly under the blacklights, as does her make up, fingernail polish, and hair elastics. There are several men and women in various stages of undress, some of them only wearing UV reflective body paint, are enjoying the party. Some of them are dancing, while others are enjoying more intimate expressions of their enjoyment. A man in a green UV reflective thong and blacklight body paint walks up to Svetlana, his white teeth glowing under the blacklights as he smiles at her.

"Svetta!" he cries in greeting, "You made it!"

"I wouldn't miss this for the world!" she replies to her host, "Thanks for inviting me, Tony."

"It wouldn't be a party without you, Babe," he replies, and he gives her a deep, passionate kiss.

"Aren't you worried?" Svetlana asks him.

"Nah!" says Tony, "We've got plenty of glow in the dark condoms."

"That's not what I mean," she replies, "I mean about The Party Crasher!"

"Hey," says Tony, "We're on the top floor. The windows are bullet proof. And I've got two well trained, armed guards just outside my apartment. Plus the guards at the concierge desk in the lobby. Trust me, no one is crashing this party without my say so."

Out in the hall, the two guards are standing just outside the double doors. They both have very bored expressions on their faces.

"So what do you think's happening inside?" Kyle, one of the guards, asks his partner.

"Judging from all that fine tail that keeps showing up," says Vincent, the other guard, "I'd say there's a whole lotta screwin' goin' on."

Just then, the doors burst open as Tony, the owner of the penthouse, goes flying down the hall. He collapses halfway to the elevator in a bloody heap. Vincent and Kyle draw their guns, Kyle looking inside the penthouse to see what's happening while Vincent goes to check on their employer.

"Mister Douglas!" says Vincent, "Mister Douglas, are you okay?"

Just then he notices some movement inside the suite. Vincent stands up and points his side arm towards the doorway. A second later he goes flying backward to be pinned to the elevator door by some sort of wire net. Several metal pins hold the net in place, and begins to draw the net tighter and tighter, cutting into Vincent's flesh. Vincent screams in agony as the wires cut deeper and deeper.

Kyle hears a woman screaming inside the penthouse. He steps into the doorway to see if he can try to help her. She's completely naked except for the glow in the dark body paint all over her skin. She's sprinting towards the door for all she's worth, and then she's flying, with a bloody shaft protruding from between her breasts. She collides with Kyle, the shaft which is protruding from her chest impales Kyle through his. The two of them fly down the hall until the javelin that has pierced them embeds itself in Vincent's chest, turning the three of them into a macabre shishkabob. The last thing Kyle's fading eyes see in this life, is a tall shimmering humanoid shape driving a pair of blades into his employer's body and dragging it back into the penthouse.

Some time later, the bodies of all of the guests to this party are hanging from the ceiling by their ankles, as are the bodies of the two security guards. The tall, humanoid killer is skinning the bodies one at a time. The stereo is playing _Boom Boom Boom _by Camarco by the time the killer gets to the final body. Just as the creature is packing the final skin away in some sort of case, another of its kind drops down through the broken skylight. This one is taller and thicker than the other, and wears a metal badge upon a leather strap around its upper arm.

The two creatures stare at each other, and if any of the skinless bodies could hear them they would appear to be growling at one another. They step away from the bodies, seemingly having a conversation. The larger creature points it's shoulder cannon at the smaller creature. An energy bolt fires from the weapon at the smaller humanoid. It dives forward, into a somersault, dodging the blast. He rolls to his feet and fires a small, arrow like projectile at the larger creature. It buries itself deep into the larger creature's arm, causing him to grasp the wound in pain.

The smaller of the two makes a dash for the collection of skins. The other creature fires another energy blast at him, missing by inches. The smaller humanoid drops into a crouch and fires back at the other with his own energy weapon. The larger humanoid leaps over the energy blast and rolls to his feet in a somersault. He charges at the one who killed all these people. The smaller humanoid meets him straight on, and the two of them grab each other by the forearms like a couple of wrestlers. The smaller of the two grabs the larger one's cannon and points it upwards at the ceiling, firing an energy blast harmlessly into the air. The larger one grabs his opponent's cannon and tears it off. When he does, the smaller one slips out of his grasp, grabs him by the tendrils which grow from their heads like dreadlocks, and slams his head into a nearby counter top.

The larger humanoid backhands the smaller one across the face, sending him staggering back. He takes aim with his cannon and tries to fire, but sparks fly out as it was damaged in the fight. He pulls off the cannon and attacks the smaller humanoid again. He grabs his opponent and drives him towards the wall. The smaller one takes a couple of running steps up the wall and does an impressive back flip over his opponent. The second he lands, he shoves the larger combatant face first into the wall, making a sizable dent. The larger one swings around, taking a wild swing with his elbow. The smaller creature ducks the attempted elbow, then extends the twin blades on his forearm and drives them into his opponent's abdomen. The larger creature growls in pain, grabs his smaller opponent by the shoulders, then headbutts him in the face.

The smaller creature turns and runs away, stooping to grab it's bag of skins along the way. Without slowing down, it picks up its bag, bolts past the hanging corpses, heads straight for the giant window overlooking the city, and smashes through the glass, disappearing into the night. Holding his wounded abdomen, the larger humanoid staggers after him. Green glowing blood seeps through his fingers, dripping on the floor. He looks out over the city. The other humanoid is nowhere to be found. The larger creature bellows in rage. He staggers back into the suite. He needs to perform some emergency first aid on himself, and leave the area before the human investigators arrive. He gathers the discarded weapons, takes out a grappling hook gun, fires the hook up through the skylight, then reals himself up on a thin but impossibly strong wire. All that is left behind is the skinless corpses of the party guests.


End file.
